


Flying colors

by yet_another_cloud



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Future Fic, M/M, Teacher/Student Roleplay, school fantasy, teacher/student fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 16:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15441006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_another_cloud/pseuds/yet_another_cloud





	Flying colors

\- Had you ever dreamed on me?

They sit half-clothed on the opposite sides of the bed, Dakin leaning at the headboard while Irwin curving at the foot. The bed which they inherited with all the other furnishing at their ‘lake summerhouse’, as they call this tiny so-to-speak-cottage, is old - large and comfortable, and with ridiculous metal knobs at the top of the corner bars (‘You can tie someone here’, Dakin smirked when he saw it first - a remark which Irwin preferred to skip past his ears, as his attitude to any bondage is… _complicated_ , to say the least).

\- Why?

A wry smile curves Dakin’s lips.

\- Well, you know, long lonely nights… morning showers…

Irwin smirks in response.

\- Sometimes. Not often.

Stu raises an eyebrow.

\- On Christmas Eve and Queen’s birthday?  
\- Ah, sod off, - Tom snapped spitelessly. – Believe me, I did have better holiday entertainments.

 _Not often did he really let himself to_ , he doesn’t say. Not when after they parted, because it hurt a lot, and he felt it better not to touch the wound to make it heal faster. Later, the pain subsided, but Dakin’s figure still hadn’t shifted to a mere memory; he came so vivid into his mind when occasionally Tom let his imagination go, with the reward of the sweetest moments he ever had on his own. That was why Tom avoided it commonly – out of concern of getting obsessed with the unfeasible dream that threatened to break out of control whenever he loosens the bridle.

\- What did you imagine? – Stu’s hand slips down his waistband while eyes are fixed on Tom. – How did you picture me? 

Tom relocates on the bed to take a sit next to Stu. In fact, he does like those dirty talk games Stu offers occasionally, and now he has not a tiny reason to pretend he’s not interested. 

\- Well, sometimes… like we enter some flat, and it’s dark inside. And I pin you to the wall just as we get in… And strip you off… Or else you pin me and -  
\- … You have me sucking you off?  
\- …Or something similar, – Tom smiles teasingly quoting Dakin’s unforgettably incongruous proposition. Then he continues, – You know, the other times I recalled the way you looked like when I bent you over by the window – remember our last time, back then?  
Stu nods. Tom’s pretty sure he hadn’t forgotten it too.

\- Did you ever think of us in the classroom?

They are touching each other already, aroused with words spoken in half-voice as well as with what their hands are doing. Taken by the moment, Tom is more willing to admit blushingly what he never planned to be known. _God yes, he did it, more than once._ Long after quitting Cutlers, of course, after quitting with teaching at all, at the safe distance of several years, at one moment he finally felt free enough to dare.

In fact, he never wanted Dakin called him _sir_ and all that teacher’s stuff when they were _really_ not far from master-and-pupil, he thought of himself as being craved for equality that time (though he did sometimes want Stuart to _obey_ \- just in contrast to his typical impudent and confident behavior, and because he simply knew that at times that boldness was just a _mask_ that obscured his uncertainty, and lack of expertise, his well-hidden readiness to be guided, to be led and taught). Now, when Stu has grown up into a man in his full glory, that inexperienced boy had been left ages behind, there’s some peppery relish in imagining that kind of things. Not only for him, as it seems, as Stu has brought it up and wants to listen.

\- Yeah… I happened to.  
\- Tell me.  
\- Like I lock the door… and stretch you out… just upon the desk –  
\- Just like the day you’ve seen me first, at Hector’s French class – do you remember? With no trousers on?  
\- No, - Tom shakes his head and leans closer airing, – actually not in that way. Face down. 

Stu gasps, and grabs Tom’s wrist, and orders with thick voice: 

\- Show me. Do what you tell. 

They have a desk in their small living room – for which ‘small’ means what it means, with the only additional space for dining table and two chairs and a dozen square feet in front of the fireplace, where Stu insisted they should have a cow skin on the floor.  
Tom never in his whole life could imagine the desk in a hut would help the way they are about to use it now. 

As they move there, Stu demands:

\- Is there any sound, in your fantasy?  
\- Oh yes, you make a lot of noise, - Tom breathes out with a smile. – And you say –  
\- _Sir, fuck me please, Mr Irwin, sir,_ – Dakin intervenes eagerly, bending ready in front of him, and Tom couldn’t tell anymore whether Stu’s helping to bring Tom’s fantasy into life, or acting on his own. Inexorably, the words make him stone hard, the flesh aching with need, the heat boiled in his blood makes him rush to comply the plead. Then, after picking up the blissful rhythm, he leans onto Stu’s spine and brushing the skin there with his warm and wet lips he says:

\- You say, _please mark my performance, sir, when you fuck me._  
\- Please mark my performance, sir, - Stu repeats, panting, gasping, arching back toward him in a madly salacious, shameless way, - am I performing good lying sprawled on your desk with my pants down, with my legs spread open, with my balls pressed tight, when you fuck me so gloriously into my arse, oh sir, - sir, - yes please, sir - 

It couldn’t take Tom more than several minutes to reach his highest peak and explode groaning something inarticulate, collapsing upon Dakin’s back.

\- Passed with flying colors, Dakin, - Tom murmurs into Stu’s ear, making him twitch. 

When they both lift up, and turn face to face, and look into each other’s eyes, Stu clutches the edge of the desk with shaking fingers and wonders what Tom’s expression means exactly, cause he looks so strangely at Stu – his soft, adoring, somewhat dimmed eyes bear some nudging question in behind. And as Tom downs himself in front of him, not averting his gaze for a little moment, Stu hears it being whispered:

\- Am I good enough for you?  
\- ‘re you crazy? – Stu huffs softly, plunging his fingers into Tom’s hair. – You’re good enough for anyone. You’re way far the best lover I’ve ever had, - and, telling this, Stu suddenly realizes it’s true. 

_I’ve yearned for you years after, and came back to you, and stayed with you for three years by now, which is ages longer than I could ever imagine, so how come you still doubt you fit me well_ \- that’s what he skips, but looking into Tom’s lightened face, he feels no more need to utter it loud.

\- You’re more than enough, I tell you, - he sums up instead, closing his eyes and giving in to the sweet waves of pleasure Tom knows so perfectly well how to rise in him.

Later on, drifting asleep under the weight of old-fashioned duvet, Stu remembers that moment. _And he asked it seriously, man._ Sometimes Tom seems to be almost impossible.

\- I’m very happy with you, - Stu muffles into Tom’s neck, hugging his shoulders with reassuring tap. And, as often happens to him, Tom bristles internally from Stu’s indulgent tone and at the same time let himself warm up with the meaning of what has been said, no matter the tone.


End file.
